Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(23)
The shot of anguish was immediate and fierce. Cécile’s eyes shut, but tears squeezed out of the corners and dripped down her cheek. “Why?”
I let the book slip out of my grasp to fall with a soft thud on the bed behind me. Pulling off my glove with my teeth, I wiped away one tear, then kissed away another before pulling her close so that her head rested under my chin.
The words stuck in my throat, coming out as a slight exhalation of air. “I…”
Her shoulders were shaking, a damp spot growing on the front of my shirt where her face was pressed against it. Was it even worth it, given the grief it would cause her? The grief it would cause me? Closing my eyes, I remembered my argument with Marc deep in the mines. If I backed away from this, I’d be nothing more than a coward and a hypocrite.
“If something happens,” I said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, “it can’t happen to both of us. We broke the curse believing we could make a better world, and if one of us falls, the other must see our dream through to the end, whatever that end might be.”
One ragged breath, and the tears stopped. “You’re planning for me to die.”
“That’s not–” I broke off, tugging at the collar of my shirt in an attempt to relieve the tightness in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
A slender arm wedged between us, and she pushed away. I let her. “Cécile…”
Her blue eyes were bloodshot. Weary. Resigned. She pressed a cold finger to my lips. “No, it’s smart. It’s a good plan. I hate it, but it’s a good plan. We need to function with autonomy, which is hard when we can feel what each other is feeling–” Her voice cracked.
Catching her hand with mine, I held it to my chest. There were things I should’ve said, explanations and justifications. Words to make her understand that in a perfect world, I’d never consider asking her for this. That in a perfect world, she would always come first, and I’d spend every waking moment proving it to her.
But ours was an imperfect world. Flawed and cruel.
“Will it work?” I asked.
She closed her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “I think it might.”
* * *
Cécile worked quickly, brow furrowed as she rummaged through Anushka’s chest, coming out with a vial filled with dried petals. “Passiflora,” she muttered. “Truthfully, I’m not sure the herbs are necessary. The iron I understand, but…” She sniffed the contents. “Might be that they are only to focus the witch on her objective. I just don’t know.”
She wasn’t talking to me, so I didn’t respond, instead going to the window and drawing back the shade. Dusk was settling on Trianon, the sun backlighting the mountains in shades of red and orange. The ship would soon be ready in what remained of the harbor, and in the darkest hour of the night, I’d send my wife and closest friends to kill my brother.
“I need blood, but only a little.”
Pulling back my sleeve, I sliced the back of my arm with magic. Blood dribbled down my wrist, crimson lines in contrast to veins still blackened with the scars of iron rot. As soon as Cécile withdrew the basin, I jerked my sleeve down to cover the mess, turning my gaze back to the window.
Soon, I’d feel nothing.
Cécile murmured an incantation, and I felt the invasive pull on my magic as she drew on it, shaping it to her own purpose. “It’s done,” she said, and I turned back to her.
On the palm of her hand rested three black balls the size of marbles. They fluxed and shifted like globs of oil in water, and Cécile’s fingers curled and twitched as though she desired nothing more than to fling them to the floor. “You’re supposed to eat them,” she said.
“That’s unfortunate. How long will it last?”
“I don’t know.” She bit her lower lip. “The magic doesn’t affect the bond – it affects you. You won’t feel what I’m feeling, because you won’t feel anything at all. You’ll be able to make decisions logically, not because of what may or may not be happening to me.” She held out her hand. “I suppose you should try one while I’m still here.”
I picked up an empty glass and tipped the contents of her palm into it. Setting it aside, I said, “Not yet.”
“Tristan.”
Shaking my head once to silence her, I eased the coat off her shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. Beneath, she wore a boy’s shirt that covered far more than any of her dresses, yet concealed nothing as her body reacted to my touch. The lids of her eyes stayed heavy, but the weariness was washed away by a heat far more to my liking. Catching hold of the laces at her throat, I tugged them loose, her soft exhalation making me ache in a way that bordered on pain.
She caught hold of my hands, lowering them to her hips. “Let me.” Her eyes fixed on mine, holding me in place as she pulled loose my cravat, letting the fabric drift to the floor. She unfastened one button, then the next, her fingers sliding under my shirt to brush against my chest, my stomach, before stopping just above my belt, which she used to pull me closer.
My breath was loud in my ears, quick and ragged, and beyond my control. Her hands drifted back up to my shoulders, pushing my shirt and coat down until they caught on my wrists, binding my arms in place until I was willing to let her go. Which I wasn’t.